


From the Mouths of Whores

by thegirlwiththefandoms



Category: Les Misérables - All Media Types, Les Misérables - Schönberg/Boublil, Les Misérables - Victor Hugo
Genre: In which sassy prostitutes help Enjolras get his shit together, M/M, brick-era
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-10-05
Updated: 2013-10-05
Packaged: 2017-12-28 12:50:22
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,989
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/992202
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/thegirlwiththefandoms/pseuds/thegirlwiththefandoms
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Enjolras does not pay any mind to prostitutes. Not usually. But, after a nasty fight with Grantaire at the Musain, three of them refuse to be ignored... but not for the reasons you might think. Needless to say, it is a very <i> enlightening </i> experience.</p>
            </blockquote>





	From the Mouths of Whores

**Author's Note:**

> This just sort of came to me because Sassy Prostitutes is one of my favourite tropes. This is the first fic I've published since around 2009. I might be a little rusty. Hope you enjoy it anyway!

With the stirrings of revolution in his heart, Enjolras, who led Les Amis D’ABC, was very seldom aware of the more unsavoury personages by which he passed as he walked home from the Café Musain, where the generation who would free France from her oppressors met to talk politics.

Today would have been no different. He left the café a bit more agitated that usual. It wasn’t that he disliked the amis’ resident drunk, Grantaire, though he’d daresay that having him contribute more than drunken outbursts would be his preference, it was that he drove him to madness sometimes. His steadfast refusal to subscribe to any of their views and his desperately irritating self-assumed role of Devil’s Advocate in every point that Enjolras made accomplished that quite nicely. He seemed to revel in asserting his counterarguments until Enjolras had high colour to his cheeks as he snapped back his own convictions. The same had happened today. Only it had gotten just a little more heated than normal. Grantaire had had less to drink than usual and seemed less inclined to mask his arguments with good humour and sarcasm. He had gone off on Rousseau, the Social Contract, called Enjolras a bourgeois little boy, and basically hit every point about which the leader was passionate.

Everyone knew that Enjolras had the ability to be cruel. And it shouldn’t have been news to Grantaire. However, when the leader had lost his temper, he had said terrible things; calling Grantaire a blithering drunk, a burden to the amis, a waste of a man. His words had been enough, it seemed, to shut the cynic up. He had stared up into Enjolras’ blazing blue eyes, silent. “No reply now?” Enjolras had demanded. “No cynical logic and allusions?”  


Enjolras had known that he had crossed a boundary when Grantaire had walked out of the Musain without his bottle. What had he been supposed to do? Chase after him and apologize? Why should he? Combeferre’s disapproving look and Courfeyrac’s wide open mouth had told him why. But, by then, it had been too late.  


Now, as he walked, Enjolras had had no intention of paying the prostitutes lining one side of the street any mind. Of course, he would speak to one if she addressed him for anything other than sex. They were people of France, the people he wanted to free from oppression. Though he lamented their status, he would be a hypocrite if he ignored a legitimate conversation.  


He ignored the initial, “Bonjour, mon petit,” and tucked his head down as he passed, attempting to exude an aura of disinterest. However, he paused when the tone turned less lascivious. “Alors! Is that the infamous leader in red?”  


Enjolras paused, turning to seek out the face of the woman who had spoken. Several females had grouped together and were now pointing and chattering in his direction without addressing him at all. This was a peculiar circumstance. At least, he thought so. He stood uncertain, wondering if he should talk to these painted women with their scandalous gowns, heavily made-up faces, and sensual way of living. In truth, Enjolras had always been rather bashful around women. He was sure that he was red in the face as he struggled to maintain the gaze he had on the group. He could shout politics and educate on the subjects about which he was passionate, but simple conversation? Absolutely not. He could barely be casually social with the amis, let alone random females.  


Finally, after a few moments of staring abashedly from both Enjolras and the prostitutes, a woman with waist-length red hair and painted lips stepped from the group. Her eyes were an intense blue which struck Enjolras. They were the very same blue he saw in the looking glass each morning. He swallowed, wondering if he shouldn’t walk away.  


“Are ya the political leader from the Musain?” the whore asked him, planting her hands on her hips. He wondered if the way she jutted out her chest was meant to be an enticement, or if it was just a force of habit.  


He had to swallow hard, blushing ridiculously and hating himself for it. “I do give political talks at the Musain, yes. What… what of it?” Had he just stammered? 

Really, Enjolras, she was a woman, not a rabid beast.  


“Well, ya oughta be ashamed of yerself!” she snapped.  


“Antoinette!” came a hiss from one of the other prostitutes.  


“Well he should!” the redheaded prostitute snapped, turning to look at the two others.  


“Of course he should, but you can’t just berate people! If Henri sees you, we’ll get the strap.”  


Antoinette turned back to them fully. Enjolras merely stood there gaping like a fish. He wondered just _why_ he should be ashamed, whether he was having a dream, and how he had gotten into the position to have his character berated by a prostitute.  


“I’m sorry,” Enjolras cut in, “but what have I done to earn your ire?”  


One of the brunettes in the group lifted her head. “Can I see your hands?” she asked him, approaching slowly. “He always talks about them.”  


Enjolras raised a light brow. He wanted to demand who this ‘he’ was. However, he did not want to be rude. Not yet, anyway. Perhaps, should this go well, he could convince them that they were worth more than this profession and even bring them to the Cause. Thus, he extended an uncertain hand. The whore, whose name was Amelie, extended her own hand to press it, palm to palm, with Enjolras’. The touch made him uncomfortable, his throat catching as he swallowed. “Et merde!” she exclaimed, waving her free hand to the other prostitutes excitedly. “He wasn’t lying.”  


What the hell was this? Enjolras had things to do and he should be going, but there was no way that he was going to turn his back on this bizarre experience.  


The other two women crowded Enjolras and Amelie, studying the two hands and commenting.  


“They _are_ exactly the same! Look at the fingers!”  


Releasing Enjolras from the delicate press of hands, Amelie grabbed his fingers in hers, intently studying the back of his hand. “Right here,” she said.  


Enjolras looked, watching her point to a small tear shaped scar he had from when he had had a mild case of the pox. He bore no other scars on his body from it but this one small one. He furrowed his brow, looking from it to the whore.  


“He mentioned this scar,” Amelie said simply, as if it explained everything.  


 _He_. There was that pronoun again. These prostitutes knew Enjolras because there was a man telling them about him. What did that mean? Should he be worried? None of the prostitutes had attempted to do anything to him, though. Nothing threatening, anyway. “Who?” he asked them  
 _The third prostitute, another brunette, Giselle, spoke then in a far thicker French common accent than the others. “Ze man in ze green waistcoat ‘oo’s always ‘ad a great deal to drink. ‘e comes to ze brothel a lot. When ‘e picks one of us, ‘e brings us upstairs. And zen…. ‘e talks to us. That’s eet. ‘e sits with us, and ‘e talks. About you.”  
_

Green waistcoat. Grantaire. Grantaire’s favourite waistcoat was green. He had been wearing it that very day, actually. Why would Grantaire come to a brothel, only to talk of Enjolras? What did he say?  


Amelie nodded. “He likes my hands. Because we have the same ones. Look.” Holding her hand beside his own, she gestured for him to look. They were incredibly similar. The same long, elegant fingers, thin wrists, even the colour was close enough, though Enjolras was fairer. “He told me once when he came to see us after one of your meetings. He likes your hands, you know. When you… he used a big word I don’t know…. gesticulate. While you talk.” She blinked her large brown eyes at him. “He draws your hands sometimes. He showed me.”  


Grantaire could draw? Why hadn’t Enjolras known that? He swallowed.  


“It’s the same with my eyes,” Antoinette told Enjolras. “We’ve got the same colour and shape. He told me that. Then he talked about how yers flash with fire when ya talk ‘bout politics. Or how they can cut someone with a glance. I’ve never heard of sharp eyes before.” She cocked her head. “Then he talked ‘bout how yer eyes keep him awake. He watches ‘em when ya get excited ‘bout things.”  


Enjolras swallowed hard, unsure of whether or not he should be hearing more. This was entirely unbelievable. He hadn’t expected anything like it, to say the least. Grantaire always seemed so indifferent. Still, there had always been the question of why he continued coming to meetings if he did not subscribe to any of the views. There were other places to have alcohol. Enjolras supposed he understood now.  


He was just wondering what part of him Giselle had when he realized that he didn’t really have to ask. It was her body shape. Not that he had been ogling. It was simply rare to find a woman as tall and thin as Enjolras himself. He was delicate for a man: thin waisted, long limbed, and pale. Some of his friends had joked that he might have made a pretty woman. He had always sighed at them. Now, he could see that his shape was not entirely awkward on a female. Giselle was boyish, but it worked on her. Enjolras bit his lips.  


Following his gaze, Giselle spoke up. “Once, ‘e came to me an’ brought me upstairs. I started to take my dress off, and ‘e stopped me. ‘e just wanted to talk to me. ‘e really is a dear, you see. None of ze others ‘oo hire me want to talk. Zey simply want ze service. ‘e talked about you again zat day. For five hours, ‘e talked about kissing you.” She shook her head, fixing him with a hard stare. “Why are you so mean to ‘im?”  


He had never meant to be. It had never been Enjolras’ intention to be cruel. He simply got agitated and let his temper fly. It was hardly unwarranted. Grantaire merely got under his skin. It wasn’t his fault.  


Antoinette shook her head at Giselle. “Non, petite,” she said softly. “It was that he’s oblivious. He don’t care about anyone. Nuffin ‘cept the Cause. He said it was all ‘bout ‘Patria’.”  


Amelie nodded. “That was it. Patria. ‘Apollo could only love Patria’.” She turned her slanted green eyes to Enjolras. “You know that he thinks you hate him? Do you hate him?”  


“No, I—“ Enjolras tried.  


“Then maybe ya should tell him that. He talks ‘bout ya like yer his sun. Calls you after some Greek God.”  


Apollo. It was mocking. Or so Enjolras had thought.  


“’e is a favourite with ze girls of ze brothel,” Giselle piped up. “We all like ‘im because ‘e treats us like people. And ‘e always pays, even when ‘e just talks.” Her lower lip jutted out in a pout. “Of course, ‘e always gives Martine more. I wonder ‘ow much ‘e’ll tip ‘er tonight.”  


Antoinette moved and grabbed one of Giselle’s curls, tugging hard. The smallest prostitute gave a shriek, turning to look to the redhead. “What did I do?” she whimpered.  


“Don’t talk ‘bout Martine and him,” she snapped, looking meaningfully at Enjolras.  


“Why does he tip Martine more?” Enjolras asked. He was too dazed by this influx of information to check himself. So his question flew unbidden.  


Antoinette rolled her eyes, looking to Giselle. “I told you. Now he’s asking questions.”  


Amelie stepped in front of both of them with a glare. Softening her expression when she looked back to Enjolras, she took a breath. “Martine looks like you. The most like you. And she wears red on the nights you have meetings, because he comes to see her after almost every one.” She paused, wondering if she should say more. “Martine watched him… watched him weep over how much he loved you. They are close.”  


Loved him? That was too much. Enjolras was reeling. Grantaire loved him? He loved him? Grantaire, the drunken cynic without an ideal to call his own, loved Enjolras, the leader of a revolutionary group and a determined believer that there was good to be had in every person and that every person could contribute? It made no sense. He… he needed to talk to Grantaire.  


“I… Forgive me, but I have to go,” he said, voice strained as he turned to leave.  


“e’s a wonderful man. You should give ‘im a chance,” Giselle called after him.  


“Or at least let him know ya know he exists!” Antoinette chimed after her.  


“Just don’t hurt him, Apollo!” came the final voice. It was strange to hear the nickname on a female’s lips. A prostitute’s at that.  
That night, Enjolras didn’t sleep at all.  


***  


By the next meeting, Enjolras had spoken of the occurrence with the prostitutes to no one. He had sat up in his room for the next two days mulling. It had agitated him to say the least. He could focus on nothing but what the prostitutes had described to him, and he had plenty of other things to think about. He simply couldn’t. Grantaire was in love with him. At least, he was if the whores could be trusted. Part of Enjolras wanted to believe that someone had put them up to the conversation. It seemed like the kind of joke that Courfeyrac would play. However, some of the things they had said had seemed a little far, even for the resident jokester of the amis.  


Thus, Enjolras had determined that he needed to talk to Grantaire. Things needed to be clarified, analyzed, and then the best course of action needed to be selected. This in mind, Enjolras waited until after the meeting, begging off Combeferre’s offer to see him home. He needed to talk to Grantaire, not that he said that to Combeferre, who never pressed him on his reasons unless they seemed detrimental to his health.  


Approaching the cynic’s table, where he sat with a bottle of wine at his elbow, Enjolras swallowed, feeling his face heat. Grantaire couldn’t really be in love with him. This had to be some kind of weird misunderstanding.  


As he came to stand beside Grantaire’s table, the drunk looked up. “Our esteemed leader,” he said with a smirk. “Come to argue politics? Or perhaps you would like to banish me from the Musain in favour of someone worth the space I occupy?”  


He did not say it cruelly, but Enjolras winced slightly all the same, recalling his words to the other in his anger. He would not apologize. It was not in his nature. Still, he did regret speaking to Grantaire that way, particularly in light of this new information.  


“Actually,” Enjolras said, keeping his face composed. “I came to ask you something.”  


Grantaire straightened then, fingers lingering on the neck of his bottle. “Oh?” he asked, studying the other. “And what could I possibly do for you, Apollo?”  


The nickname gave Enjolras pause that it never had before. He simply recalled Amelie saying the same to him. He blinked, steadying his mind. “The other night, I was accosted by a trio of prostitutes.”  


The words had Grantaire’s eyes widening before his lips quirked in bemusement. “Accosted, you say?” he echoed, eyes now shining with mirth. “And how, pray, does this relate to me? Come to ask the drunkard the secrets of the flesh? I would think that Courfeyrac would delight in sharing what he knows. Or, for your sensibilities, I might favour the clinical explanation you would garner from Combeferre. Or perhaps even Joly, though the fear of disease by association with a prostitute might frighten him into silence.”  


Enjolras’ face burned as his eyes flashed. “I am well aware of the institution of sex, Grantaire,” he snapped.  


“Really?” Grantaire returned. “Is this where we discovered that our Apollo has a lascivious double life with the ladies of the Parisian underworld?”  


“Can you not be serious for a moment of your life?” Enjolras demanded.  


“Never,” was the reply.  


Enjolras narrowed his eyes, studying Grantaire. Perhaps now was not the best time for this. But he could not continue bearing the plagued mind he had been enduring these two days. He had speeches and pamphlets and other things. Why it was so important to him from the first was eluding him in and of itself. “It seems, Grantaire, that these prostitutes were well aware of you.”  


The drunk’s hand paused in its journey to bring the bottle to his lips. He seemed to consider for a moment, and Enjolras wondered what it was going through his head at that very moment. “I have indulged before,” Grantaire responded finally. Leave it to him to be irritating. “It is a common practice for us lowly mortals. Sex, I mean.”  


“That’s not what I meant,” Enjolras snapped. He hated that. He hated when people mocked him for his aloofness about such things. It was not his affair. It did not make him frigid or above those for whom it was exciting. “I did not know you could draw, for instance. One of the women, however, claimed that you had shown her sketches of my _hands_ of all things.”  


He had Grantaire now. The cynic went pale, pressing the bottle to his lips to take a deep sip of the wine. Now that Enjolras had him quiet, he nodded, continuing. “You are quite well liked at the brothel, Grantaire. Though not for the reasons one might think.”  


Grantaire said nothing, moving to get up from his chair. To escape. Enjolras stepped to the side to bar his way. He wondered if Grantaire was regretting his little corner now. Normally, he would have simply allowed the cynic to leave. Not today, however. Today, he had to have this out. “Are you in love with me, Grantaire?”  


Silence. Another chugging sip of wine. The liquid churned in the bottle as the drunk let it fall onto the table, barely balancing before it righted itself. He reeked of desperation as he attempted to move past Enjolras again.  


The revolutionary was having none of it. His hands pressed into Grantaire’s shoulders hard, pinning him against the wall and crowding into his space to keep him still. “Answer me, Grantaire,” Enjolras ordered.  


Who was Grantaire to deny his Apollo anything? His heart pounded in his chest so hard that he wondered if he would keel over and die from it. “I…” His eyes were everywhere—Apollo’s eyes, his chest, his hair, his mouth. Upon this last, he paused, breath catching.  


Following Grantaire’s gaze, Enjolras nodded slightly. One firm inclination of the head. He would let Grantaire kiss him if it got him answers.  


Hands that Enjolras had not even realized had found themselves on his person fluttered at his waist before tugging the leader close.  


Grantaire’s lips were warm and tasted of grapes—that had to be thanks to the wine. They were thin and also a little chapped, but Enjolras was not entirely disgusted with the act of being kissed by them. Particularly when they kissed him as if he were air and their owner a drowning man. A tiny sound escaped Grantaire’s throat as he held tighter to the other.  


Enjolras, for his part, had no experience in kissing, nor did he even know much of the theory apart from lips pressed to lips. Thus, he had no idea how to react. So, he didn’t. Not for a long moment while he attempted to catch his bearings.  


Evidently, he waited too long, because Grantaire pulled back. Somehow, Enjolras didn’t think that that had been the kind of kiss about which Grantaire had talked to Giselle for five hours. He could try that again. If he didn’t, doubtless the drunk would go close-lipped. And Enjolras wanted to know all kinds of things: if he really loved Enjolras, how long he had, why he did, why he had never said anything. Thus, he pressed forward, taking Grantaire’s lips with his own. He detested being unpracticed, and yet he had to accept that he was not going to be good at this particular activity the first time. However, from the way that Grantaire clung to him and whimpered—yes, whimpered—Enjolras could wager that he was not the very worst in the world.  


He felt a gentle hand in his hair as his lips clumsily moved over Grantaire’s. Enjolras would allow this for the next few seconds that the kiss continued. When he pulled back, he was almost pleased by how Grantaire’s mouth attempted to follow his. However, he pressed him back. “Are you in love with me?” he asked again, voice as intense of his eyes.  


“Yes,” Grantaire returned, voice a desperate whisper.  


“For how long?”  


“Since I first saw you.”  


That long. How could it have been that long? Enjolras could scream. He did not know that he would have acted upon it if he had known. Still, it would have provided invaluable insight. And the choice on whether or not to act would have been nice. Still, it could not be entirely Grantaire’s fault. If he had loved him for as long as he said, it had also been Enjolras’ fault for not seeing that.  


“Why did you conceal it from me?”  


Grantaire bit his lip, hands falling from Enjolras’ form as his gaze found the floor. “What use would there have been in my telling you?” he asked. “I lack conviction, ambition, and passion. Instead, Apollo, I gain these things through precious osmosis from a god among men. What have I to offer you? You were irrefragable in your verbal evisceration of me three days ago, Enjolras.”  


“You should have told me. It was less than desirable to find out about you lamenting your misfortune concerning me from prostitutes.”  


The cynic smirked weakly. “Did they embarrass you? Weigh upon your virginal sensibilities?”  


“Shut up.”  


The cynic shut up.  


When Enjolras moved to pull away, thinking their conversation finished, Grantaire tightened his grip on the other. Enjolras paused, confounded. Grantaire swallowed. “Should I pretend, after this moment, that this did not come to pass?”  


Enjolras considered for a moment. He could do that, he supposed. He could ignore Grantaire’s regard for him and continue as they had. After all, before this moment, he had never considered the drunk as anything more than an annoyance and a good resource for honing his argumentative skills. Now, he had no idea. What should he do? What he did know was that he had had no problem kissing Grantaire, and that he would have no problem doing it again. Giselle parting words to him rang in his ears. He hadn’t time for a relationship or courtship or whatever it was that normal couples could do, but he could give this a chance, as long as Grantaire accepted that Patria came first. Why shouldn’t Enjolras at least try? Maybe it could wipe out some of his infuriating cynicism. Maybe.  


Grantaire’s eyes were on his mouth again. The tongue which darted out to wet the leader’s lips was unintentional, but entirely effective. With this kiss, Enjolras felt just a bit more comfortable. Yes, he could accustom himself to this. The reverence with which Grantaire held him was new, and the murmured allusions and sweet words when they parted kept him close. It was a private moment, and he appreciated it.  


He would have to rethink his stance on prostitutes in general. It turned out that they were far more than unfortunate souls with poor life paths lain out for them. A few women like the three he had met might even be an asset to the amis.


End file.
